


Torture

by AutisticWriter



Series: Neurodivergent Goodies [3]
Category: The Goodies (TV)
Genre: ABA, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Applied Behaviour Analysis, Autism, Autism Spectrum, Autistic Tim, Best Friends, Bill unintentionally causes chaos, Dark, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Established Relationship, Heavy Angst, Loss of Trust, Men Crying, Multi, Physical Abuse, Shutdowns, Special Interests, Stimming, Vomiting, abusive therapy, graeme is a good friend, meltdowns, non-verbal episodes, poor Tim, quiet hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-06-18
Packaged: 2018-07-14 16:12:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7179320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AutisticWriter/pseuds/AutisticWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim is sent for ABA, and it is more horrific than any of the Goodies thought possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Before

**Author's Note:**

> Applied Behaviour Analysis is an abusive therapy that autistic people are sent for.

“Are you sure this is for the best?” Graeme asked, playing with one of his home-made fiddle toys and swinging his legs as he sat on the edge of Tim’s desk.

“I don’t think so,” Tim muttered. He was playing with the speed on his gramophone, wondering what would happen if he played one of Graeme’s crappy record at a slower speed than normal, and was bouncing his legs under the desk.

Across the room, Bill sighed. He had a bag slung across his shoulders, and he wouldn’t tell Tim what was in there. His anxiety was growing by the minute.

“I honestly don’t know,” he said, sighing again. “But the doctors said it would help, and, to be honest, I just want to help him.” Bill turned to look at Tim, and smiled. “It’ll be fine, Timbo, I promise. You know I wouldn’t let anything bad happen to you.”

They were talking about the therapy Tim was booked in to begin later today. He didn’t know much about it, except that it was called Applied Behaviour Analysis, and was designed to treat people with behaviour problems. And, as he was being sent for therapy, Tim presumed that he was one of those people, although he was almost totally certain that his behaviour, however strange, wasn’t actually a problem.

Nobody knew what was wrong with Tim. As a child, his doctors had thought he had schizophrenia, but they quickly realised that that wasn’t correct. At one point, someone had suggested something called autism, but the doctors had denied he was autistic, because he was twenty three at the time, and, apparently, autism was only diagnosed in children.

So he was confused to be being sent for ABA, as, according to Graeme (who had spent the morning reading about in a book he had checked out of the library, having to stop every so often as he, as usual, struggled to concentrate), that was the standard treatment for autism, but he was used to not understanding things, and had just stopped asking. But he was still nervous to be doing this, because he had no idea what to expect, and, from what Graeme had told him, it wasn’t meant to be the most relaxing experience. He was pretty certain that, if Bill wasn’t coming, he would have refused to go full stop. He was only doing this because Bill wanted him to, and, as he trusted his partner, he knew he was just going to have to but his trust in this therapy.

But, as they left the office, he couldn’t help but panic when he saw the look of complete sympathy on Graeme’s face. Still, he took a deep breath and tried to stay calm. After all, how bad could ABA be?


	2. During

After sitting in the waiting room at a therapist’s office full of children and teenagers all acting like Tim for over half an hour, Tim and Bill were beckoned into a room. The therapist introduced himself as Edward, and shook Bill’s hand, but not Tim’s. Instantly, Tim disliked him.

Tim looked at the chair he was supposed to sit on. It had straps where his ankles and wrists were supposed to go, and another across the middle, like a seatbelt in a car. Was Edward seriously going to strap his hands down? He looked over at Bill, but he wasn’t looking at him. He reluctantly sat down, folding his arms across his chest.

Bill sat on the non-strapped chair across the room, and Edward immediately turned his chair and began to talk to Bill as though Tim wasn’t there. His chest was starting to feel tight, and he bounced his leg up and down. Edward and Bill talked about what they had obviously said to each other on the telephone, making Tim feel even more out of it. He turned his head and stared out of the window.

“How is his eye contact?” Edward asked. Tim continued to stare out of the window.

Bill’s voice was hesitant when he spoke. “He never makes eye contact. But . . . is that a bad thing?”

“Yes,” Edward said, as blunt as Tim usually was. Tim gritted his teeth, and tried to blank out their conversation by humming Land of Hope and Glory under his breath.

“Did you bring them?” Edward asked, and Tim turned his head in time to see Bill opening the shoulder bag he had resting on his lap.

“Yeah,” Bill said, and, to Tim’s horror, he pulled his Land of Hope and Glory LP out of the bag and passed it to Edward.

“Bill, what’re you doing?” He gasped. How could Bill be giving _his record_ to a total stranger? He put his fingers in his mouth and began to chew on his nails, feeling dangerously close to having what Graeme referred to as a meltdown.

“I need to give these to him, Timbo,” Bill said softly.

“What do you mean ‘these’?” He cried.

Bill didn’t say anything, but he pulled his Royal Family scrapbook, his Royal Family books, and all of his fiddle toys Graeme made him out of the bag as well. Tim’s eyes started to sting, his head racing so much he felt a bit faint.

“Why’re you doing this?”

“Calm down, Tim,” Edward said, finally talking to him. Tim fought the urge to swear at him, wanting to run away but finding himself glued to his chair. “This is just part of the behaviour programme. If you do the tasks, you’ll be allowed to spend some time with your things.” He turned back to Bill. “You need to make sure he doesn’t have access to any of his sweets as well, outside of their role as a reward.”

Tim groaned; he loved his lemon sherbets. He didn’t know what he would do if he couldn’t suck on his favourite sweets to calm himself down. He started to rock subtly in his seat, trying to breathe deeply and not succeeding. This was horrible.

Bill nodded, a bit uncertainly. “Yeah, about that . . . what’s wrong with him having sweets?”

“Does he eat sweets instead of having meals?”

Bill nodded again, and Tim screwed his eyes up for a few seconds. “Yeah, he does. He often forgets to eat.”

“Well, that’s the problem, you see,” Edward said. “That isn’t a normal behaviour.”

“I see,” Bill said, sounding like he didn’t.

Once they had finished taking everything that Tim loved away from him, and planning his ‘behaviour plan’ without any help from him, Edward asked Bill to leave the room. Tim felt sick.

“Right, well I guess I’ll see you later then, Timbo,” Bill said, getting to his feet.

“Please don’t go,” he whispered, looking at Edward and the horrible look on his face. He reached out for Bill’s hand, smiling slightly when he squeezed his hand hard.

But then Bill let go, and smiled sympathetically. “Don’t be silly, mate, you’ll be fine.”

Tim wasn’t so sure. He hated the way Edward was looking at him. He didn’t trust him at all.

Bill left the room, and Edward closed the door behind him.

“Right, then, Tim,” Edward said, coming over and standing in front of him. “Let’s get started.”

Without any warning, Tim starting crying, and he couldn’t stop. It felt like his chest was going to cave him and his head was going to explode. Instantly, his hands were up from his lap and his fingers were in his mouth. He chewed his nails for about three seconds before Edward yelled at him, his voice painfully loud.

“Tim, put your hands on the arms of the chair,” he said, his voice firm like he was talking to a bloody dog.

Tim ignored him, so Edward grabbed his wrists and pinned his hands to the arms of his chair. He flinched and let out a high pitched shriek, trying to pull his arms free. His head started pounding, a dull ache behind his forehead, and he couldn’t control his breathing.

“No, Tim, do you not understand,” Edward said, his voice straining as he tried to keep a grin on Tim’s hands. Tim stared at his sweaty forehead, wishing he would let go of his arms. “You can’t do that. You have to keep your hands still.”

“Why can’t I?” He sobbed.

“Because I say so.”

“But that doesn’t make sense!” Tim cried, just like he did in class at school all those years ago, because he didn’t bloody understand, and it made him want to scream.

“It doesn’t have to make sense,” Edward said, calm again. “You just have to do it.”

“When I say the words ‘quiet hands’, I want you to stop moving your hands and put them on the arms of your chair, do you understand?”

Of course he didn’t understand, but he still nodded his head and looked down at his lap. He especially didn’t understand why Edward wanted his hands to be quiet, because he didn’t make any noise when he chewed his nails or played with his hair. None of his made sense. Tim sniffed, feeling tears dripping off of his chin.

“Quiet hands!” Edward shouted, his voice so loud Tim clamped his hands over his ears as his head pounded and more tears spilled down his cheeks.

Edward prised his hands from the sides of his head and slammed them down against the arms of the chair. Tim spluttered with sobs, the pain in his stinging palms not nearly as bad as the pain in his chest. He fought against Edward’s grip, but he was too strong. Why was this happening? He wanted Bill. He wanted his stuff back.

Eventually, Tim relaxed, his muscles burning, and sat still even when Edward released his hands. His skin was burning.

“Thank you.”

Without realising he was doing it, Tim’s hands began to move, his fingers tapping against the arms of the chair to the tune of Land of Hope and Glory. Edward saw, and sighed.

“Quiet hands!”

Tim stopped moving his fingers, and placed his hands flat against the chair. He continued to sob, his breathing shuddering.

“That’s better.” He said, only to sigh again when he saw that Tim’s legs were bouncing wildly. “Tim, stop it!” Tim wanted to stop, but he couldn’t.

“Right,” Edward said, kneeling down in front of him.

He reached down and tied the straps around Tim’s ankles. He tightened them so much that Tim’s ankles were pressed right against the legs of the chair, his feet totally flat against the floor. Tim cried harder, trying to put his hands in his mouth again. It worked for a few, glorious seconds, before Edward grabbed his hands and slammed them against the arms of the chair. Edward then strapped his wrists down, and fastened the strap across his waist, leaving him totally restrained and totally vulnerable. Tim screwed his eyes up, and sobbed quietly into his chest.

“Right,” Edward said, sounding out of breath. “Now you’ve stopped causing a fuss, we can get on with this.”

Tim looked up again, watching Edward sit down. His vision was clouded with tears, which weren’t showing any sign of stopping.

“The first thing your . . . friend and I dis—”

“He’s my partner,” Tim said firmly. “Not my friend.”

“Well, the first thing you _partner_ —” Edward said, pronouncing the word like he was swearing. “— and I discussed is eye contact. If you make eye contact for thirty seconds, you can listen to your record once. Is that fair?”

Tim shook his head. Edward sighed.

“It’s fair. Right, then, Tim. When I say ‘eyes’, I want you to look up and make eye contact for thirty seconds, all right?”

Tim nodded, knowing there was no point arguing with this horrible man.

“All right, then. ‘Eyes’!”

With a sense of dread, Tim forced himself to look at Edward’s bloodshot eyes, something he hadn’t done in years, not even with Bill and Graeme, for the very simple reason that it made his head hurt and it made him feel like he was going to have a panic attack. Immediately, his forehead started to feel like someone was crushing it, and his eyes ached, and his chest felt horribly tight to the point he heaved and almost vomited. He looked away only a few seconds later, unable to bear the pain.

“No, Tim, you need to do it for ten seconds.”

“I’m sorry,” he spluttered, screwing his eyes up.

“Do you want to try again?”

Of course he didn’t, but Tim thought that obeying Edward might mean he could get out of here quicker, and he really wanted to listen to his record, so he nodded his head. More tears ran down his face.

“Eyes!”

This time, Tim managed to stare at Edward’s eyes until he told him he could let go, but it didn’t feel like an achievement. He swallowed the vomit in his mouth and tried to breathe slowly, wishing he was literally anywhere else.

“Well done, Tim!” Edward said, and he put his record onto the gramophone.

It wasn’t the same now he wasn’t allowed to move to the music, but the relief that flooded through him as he heard his favourite music blaring from Edward’s crappy old record player brought fresh tears to his eyes. He sat as far forward as he could in his chair, his hands limp on the arm rests, his eyes focused on the buttons on his waistcoat, and just listened, wishing he could spin around and just _be him_ , but he knew he couldn’t.

When the music was over, Edward tried to get him to make eye contact again, but he just couldn’t any more, at least, not without being sick. He stared at his lap and screwed his eyes up, ignoring Edward as he said “eyes!” over and over again.

“For goodness’ sake, Tim,” Edward sighed. Tim opened his eyes and watched him look through the notes he must have written when talking to Bill, wondering what he was going to do now.

Before Tim could stop him, Edward was in front of him and had forced a mint flavoured sweet into his mouth. Edward made him to chew it, holding his jaw so he couldn’t spit it out. He hated mint so much, and he gagged as his mouth burned unbearably. More tears spilled down his face, but he managed to chew and swallow the whole thing.

“See, Tim, that’s what happens if you don’t do what I say. If you do it right, you get a reward, which will be another listen of your record or a quick look through your scrapbook, but, if you disobey me, you get a punishment. It’s simple, really.”

It really wasn’t. None of what Edward got him to do made sense, and it hurt Tim’s chest. Edward must have understood that Tim wasn’t doing eye contact anymore (and bribing him with lemon sherbets didn’t work, because his mouth tasted of mint and he would rather go without that make eye contact), because he unstrapped Tim’s right hand and said they would now be working on handshakes. Tim didn’t want to, but he didn’t dare argue. He just wanted to get out of here.


	3. After

By the end of the two hour session, he couldn’t speak. He hadn’t gone nonverbal in a long time, but this ‘therapy’ had finally done it. Edward unstrapped his wrists and ankles, but he kept still even without them. His hands were most definitely quiet. His head was buzzing, his skin was burning, and his mouth still tasted foul. He felt like he had just run a marathon.

Tears were still dribbling down his cheeks, so Edward passed him a box of tissues. He ignored them and pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket, preferring the soft fabric over the rough paper tissues. As he wiped his face dry, he saw Edward looking through his scrapbook, manhandling it like it was worthless, and he wanted to tell him to get off of it, but he couldn’t form the words, and, anyway, he didn’t want any more punishments. He just wanted to get the hell out of here.

Once he was satisfied that he had calmed down, Edward opened the door, and called Bill’s name. A few seconds later, Bill came into the room, and Tim’s tight chest finally relaxed. It was so amazing to see his partner again that he almost burst into tears.

Bill looked at him warily, staring at his tear stained face. “So, how did it go?”

Once again, Edward blanked him, and turned and talked to Bill as though he wasn’t in the room. “Very well, actually. We’ve found the behaviours that need to be changed, and we’ve been working on it, haven’t we, Tim?”

Tim nodded his head, trying to fight the urge to bounce his leg in case Edward hurt him again.

“Well, that’s good, I guess,” Bill said, looking between them and frowning. Tim hung his head, not having the strength to hold it up anymore.

And then, finally, Edward let him go.

Once they were outside in the horribly warmth that made Tim sweat, Bill put his hand on his shoulder. It felt like an electric shock, and Tim jerked away, wanting to yell but still not able to speak.

“What’s the matter, Timbo?”

Tim shrugged, wanting to say, _you put me through hell, you bastard,_ or something similar, but not able to form the words. Bill sighed, but let go of him. Tim wished he had his notebook so he could write Bill a message, but he didn’t have it, and that made him want to cry.

When they got back to their three seated bike, otherwise known as the trandem, Tim stood back and watched Bill unlock the bike lock, scrubbing at his damp, sensitive eyes. Even though he normally sat at the front, he and Bill changed places, and he got onto the back seat of the trandem. Bill obviously didn’t think he was up to steering, and he was correct, because Tim could hardly walk in a straight line anymore. Tim barely even pedalled as they cycled back to the office, struggling to keep himself upright on the bike as his head continued to spin from his awful experience. Tears started to dribble down his face, and he was glad Bill couldn’t see.

When they got back to the office, Bill opened the door, and led Tim into the room. Graeme looked up from Tim’s desk, and the look on his face made Tim burst into tears. Graeme jumped to his feet, and Tim started scrubbing at his eyes, wishing he could stop crying, but he couldn’t.

“Tim?” Bill said, alarmed. “What’s the matter?”

Bill tried to touch his arm, and he screamed. He slapped Bill’s hand away and stormed across the room, wanting to get away from him. But his vision was blurred with tears and he walked straight into Graeme, banging his head against Graeme’s. They both shrieked, and Tim started screaming, and he couldn’t stop.

He sank to his knees, screaming louder and louder, realising that he was having a meltdown. He rocked backwards and forwards, gripping tightly at his hair, pulling to hard it made his scalp hurt. He could faintly hear Bill and Graeme’s voices, but they were echoing and ended up sounding like the adults in Charlie Brown. He felt sick, his head hurt, and the tears wouldn’t stop. It was horrible.

It was just overwhelming. He couldn’t do anything but curl up on the floor and scream to drown out the noise and bang his head against the floor and rock and just cry and release all of the stress he had felt whilst with that total bastard because it was all so bloody horrible and . . . and . . .

He cried until he was sick, throwing up all over the floor. He vomited again simply because the taste of his own stomach acid was that disgusting, his tongue burning horribly.

Graeme and Bill didn’t try to restrain him. They just stood on the other side of the room and watched, and Tim was immensely grateful.

Once he was over the worst of it, Tim sat up and hugged his legs to his chest and rocked back and forth, trying to stop himself crying. He reached out with his hand in Bill’s direction, still not able to make a sound. He chewed on his lip and flexed his fingers, longing for Bill to come over.

Thankfully, Bill caught his drift, and came and sat down beside him, putting his arm around his shoulders. He squeezed him tightly, and Tim leaned into his touch, resting his head on Bill’s shoulder. Bill knew he was soothed by pressure.

He just wished that Bill had known a bit more about this ‘therapy’ before he had sent him to it.

\---

It was hours before Tim regained the ability to speak. He was sat cross legged in front of the TV, watching footage of the Queen and Prince Phillip on the regional news, when he suddenly realised he could talk. He didn’t take his eyes off of the screen when he spoke to Bill.

“I h-hate you right now, B-Bill,” he said hoarsely, having to force the words out.

“Wh-what, why?” Bill spluttered.

“Because it was hell,” he mumbled. “Why else do you think I went nonverbal?”

“Timbo, I—”

“And I hate you for it right now. Because you forced me to go even though Gray had doubts. Because you let him take my record!” He snapped, his eyes filling with tears, still not taking his eyes from the TV. “You let him take my Land o-of Hope and Glory, Bill.”

Tim ducked his head, wiping his eyes dry, humiliated. Graeme and Bill were suddenly sat either side of him, staring at each other, using nonverbal communication that Tim didn’t understand, and he hated them for it.

“I’m sorry, Timbo,” Bill said, reaching for his hand. “I was just trying to do what’s best. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“Why was it so bad?” Graeme asked.

Graeme smiled sympathetically and handed him one of his own fiddle toys. Bill stared at him, obviously remembering that Edward had banned fiddle toys, but he didn’t stop Tim taking it. He twisted the piece of metal in his fingers, still expecting someone to scream ‘quiet hands’, but no one did.

Until Bill did.

“Quiet hands, Tim,” he said, softly, as though he didn’t know the horror of his words.

Tim screamed as fear gripped at his chest. He wanted to be sick.

“Tim, what’s the matter?” Graeme said.

“You bastard, how could you say that?” He yelled, shuffling backwards, trying to stop Bill touching him.

Tim stumbled to his feet and hurtled away, slamming into the bathroom and locking the door. He slumped against the door and slid to the floor, his head in his hands. He sobbed hysterically, hardly able to breathe. Not only had Bill sent him to that awful ‘therapy’, but he was now acting just like Edward. He felt sick.

“Tim?” Came Bill’s voice.

“Sod off!” He yelled, his voice cracking.

“I’m really sorry,” Bill said, sounding near tears. “I was just doing what he said I should do. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“SOD OFF!”

He stuck his head over the toilet bowl and threw up. He felt like he was going to have a meltdown again.

“Tim?” Graeme said sometime later, his voice soft. “I know you don’t want to talk right now, but I’ve got your notebook in case you want to write about the session. Here.”

Tim turned around and saw the book sliding under the door, a biro tucked inside the spiral binding. He smiled weakly and hugged the Union Jack patterned book to his chest.

“Th-thanks, Gray.”

“It’s nothing, mate,” Graeme said, and he heard his footsteps as he walked away from the door.

Tears dribbled down his cheeks as his he scribbled down everything that had happened, for once feeling glad that he had a good memory. As he wrote, tears dripped off of his chin and splattered the page, making the ink run, but, for once, he didn’t care. He made sure to underline the works ‘quiet hands’ and make a note about how evil those words were. He called Edward a bastard repeatedly, and wrote at the top, in massive letters: ‘I AM NEVER GOING BACK TO THAT PLACE AND YOU CAN’T MAKE ME’. Then he slid the notebook back under the door, trying to control his breathing.

He didn’t know what was going to happen, but he knew he was never going back to that ‘therapy’, and he just wished he would be able to trust Bill again.


End file.
